


Gargoyles are the Best Therapists

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Batfam mention, Batman is not an optimist, Bruce Wayne Feels, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Bruce and Clark are best friends, Bruce broods a lot, Bruce is angsty, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Even Batman gets sad sometimes, Gargoyles of Gotham, Gen, Sad, Sad Bruce Wayne, Unhappy Ending, but Superman is, lots of feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 19:13:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15225996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: A criminal Batman thought had reformed has relapsed, and murdered a family. He takes to the gargoyles of Gotham to contemplate Batman, and his life, because right now, it kind of sucks. Superman doesn't intend to let the blues get Bruce down and so (with a point in the right direction from the family) he decides to help out.





	Gargoyles are the Best Therapists

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I do not own these characters, DC Comics does. I think Batman has more emotions than he's often written with. I mean, yeah, he's been trained to conceal them, and has gone through a lot of trauma, but he's still human. You can only conceal so much. So this is a reflection on how Bruce would feel after a really tough case.

From high up over the city, one couldn’t hear any of the noise. Through the light pollution, haze, steam, and clouds, there were only a few brave stars shining through. Mostly though, if a person were high up in a place like Gotham City, they might notice the way the air cleared and the real beauty of the city— so often marred by the gritty realities of the streets— seemed to appear. Suddenly, a dark shadow, barely a whisper in the cold night air, descended on top of the Wayne Enterprises building. With barely a sigh, the dark figure materialized more as it stepped out into the moonlight and perched on the very edge of the roof. Perhaps this was why heaven was traditionally depicted as being in the sky, so ‘angels’ could see the beauty, but were removed from the realities of living, the Bat pondered. A slight breeze caught his jet-black cape and sent it fluttering behind him as he crouched on the edge of the abyss. If his expression were clearer, it would have seemed to be one of pensive sadness, or how one might look when contemplating the meaning of their existence. 

For apparently no reason, the man stood, glancing over his shoulder. There was nothing there. Then, with little warning, he leapt fearlessly off the roof and plummeted a few stories before his fall was arrested by a simple grappling hook. As he swung in a parabolic arch, an on-looker might notice the way he looked down over the city, as if contemplating his place above it. Then, as the Dark Knight reached the next building—and sat on one of its ornate figures, a gargoyle, he sighed again. 

But this time, it was louder and sounded more tired, less controlled. Batman pinched the bridge of his cowl’s nose as if trying to suppress a headache. He swung one leg over the side and let it dangle. Then he rested his other hand on the gargoyle and stared out at the vast, largely blank sky, gaze barely skimming his so-called beloved city. Then the hero abruptly shifted his gaze straight up before resting his head against the side of the building and closing his eyes. Sometimes the silence can be deadly, Batman—Bruce— thought. It makes the veritable sound wave that is Gotham seem too much after it’s gone. The silence lies to you, makes you think that maybe things are changing, getting better. But then I go down there, night after night, and what do I see? Suffering. It all starts with a noise— screaming, or perhaps a gunshot. God knows I appreciate the quiet nights when they come, but the silence makes it harder… harder when the ugliness is revealed again. 

To an observer, Batman may have looked like he was taking a nap after a long night, or merely appreciating a rare moment of peace, but those who knew him would recognize that he was avoiding something: in this case, his city. They would say, the ones who knew him, that he was not perched, muscles coiled and ready for action, but was sitting slack. They would observe that he was not keeping a hawk-like gaze out for evil-doers, or victims to help, but literally had closed his eyes to the darkness and hate. They would see the fact that right now, Batman was hanging on, or trying to, by a thread and he was not doing it very well. 

Another sudden breeze fluttered his cape, and Batman opened his eyes. It was not a natural breeze that had disturbed his frustrated, tired musings, but an artificial, alien one. Superman had been following his friend for the past few minutes after getting a tip from one of Bruce’s sons, and he didn’t like what he saw. To Superman, Batman was not a man of hope. But, Batman was a man of determination. To Clark, that was the most hopeful thing possible, that this ordinary man would go out and fight for justice without powers, night after night. Right now, though, he saw a man who was not determined, but seemed to be tired and lost. So, when his friend went to sit on an honest-to-god gargoyle and shut his eyes to the world— to his precious city— Superman knew this was a job for him. 

Batman didn’t acknowledge him by name, but he said, “It’s a nice night; usually starts raining in Gotham around this time of year.” The unsaid, but implied— the important, personal things were always implied— message was that Superman should be enjoying his night in Metropolis… away from Batman, Clark thought. 

“It is a nice night, thought I’d swing by and share it,” Superman replied: I know something’s wrong, and I came to talk. 

“So, things are quiet in Metropolis, I take it?” Bruce commented: Go find somewhere else to be, Clark. Superman shrugged and flew closer to Bruce’s gargoyle. 

“Sorry,” he said, “I don’t get to choose which nights are quiet or not.” I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong. Bruce almost growled, shifting to a low crouch on his stone perch. 

“Well surely you can find better company than me,” he stated almost huffily. Clark sighed, trying to really see what was bothering his friend, but as usual, the bat’s emotional state was as hard to read as melting ice: too slippery and inconsistent. Bruce shifted again, this time turning to glare at Clark. “Stop looking at me like that. I’m not some patient in Arkham who has to be analyzed,” he barked. Ah. So that was it. Batman’s Freudian slip— his reference to Arkham— proved useful to Superman, who was an investigative reporter, after all. 

“Did the Joker escape Arkham again?” Clark hazarded. Bruce was silent a moment and Superman feared that he was contemplating leaving. 

But then, in an abrupt change of tone, Bruce dropped his bluster and said quietly, “No.” The two lapsed into silence afterwards, and Clark could barely contain his frustration; it appeared he would have to drag out what was bothering Bruce again. He swore it was a process almost more painful than Kryptonite exposure. But then, Batman surprised him for the second time that night by freely offering more information. 

“Tom Ford,” Bruce said suddenly, “a former drug addict and Arkham patient. Recently released for good behavior. Tonight, he shot and killed a family of three as they were walking to their car. He stole their money and used it to buy cocaine.” Superman was silent at this. 

“I take it you apprehended him?” Superman said. Bruce nodded, and let out a grunt of frustration. 

“Yes. I apprehended him. This time, and the first. Last time, he promised he could do better. I followed his progress inside Arkham. When he was released, I believed him. This time, he was crying, said he was sorry, even as he snorted more coke. People don’t change, Clark… it’s a boulder that we push against; a Sisyphean task. Every day, we get older— I do, at least— and my hopes of cleaning up Gotham seem more like a pipe dream,” Bruce said. It was a crisis of faith he was facing, then. Batman couldn’t see the forest through the trees. 

“You know what I saw, the other day?” Clark asked. Bruce waited, obviously knowing there was more to Clark’s question. “An old homeless man had tripped and landed in the street. The light was turning, and he would’ve been run over if these three little kids hadn’t helped him back onto the sidewalk. Some people may be evil, B, but for every one of them, there’s still three little kids, ready to help an old man back to the sidewalk.” 

Bruce stood from his perch and turned to Clark. “Do you know the story of the frog and the scorpion, Superman?” he asked. Superman nodded, already knowing where this was going. “People don’t change,” Bruce said. Then he leapt off the gargoyle into free fall. Clark’s heart stopped a little as he watched his friend’s fall be abruptly halted by a grappling hook. 

Long after Batman had gone, Superman hovered in the same spot, thinking about his friend’s words. He sighed, an ache of sadness filling his heart. But he soon got a determined look: he would help Bruce through his struggles, as any good friend would. Batman was a man who stood for justice, albeit with… unusual methods. Clark would not let him suffer alone. Finally, he snapped to the present and realized there was no reason for him to still be hovering there. He flew off. The gargoyles were alone.


End file.
